


savior in a devil's robe

by nini_pls



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Biting, Come Swallowing, Creampie, Deepthroating, Demon Sex, Demonic Possession, Dom/sub Undertones, Exorcisms, F/M, Femdom, First Time, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, Mild Blood, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Priest Chrollo, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Scratching, a sexorcism if you will, demon OC, sorry to all catholics i was horny, time to sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:16:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29568780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nini_pls/pseuds/nini_pls
Summary: Father Lucilfer is called into town for an exorcism. It does not go as planned.
Relationships: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Original Character(s), Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Original Female Character(s), Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	savior in a devil's robe

Chrollo exalts in his sermons. He meticulously crafts each one, poring over the holy texts and ruminating so that he may present his parishioners with only the finest revelations. It’s during one such session that the call comes.

“Father Lucilfer, your services are needed!” the deacon cries.

“What is the matter?”

“In the village, there is a woman who has been—” the deacon crosses himself, turning his eyes to the sky, “—possessed.”

“Not to worry, I will come at once.”

Chrollo gathers his materials, securing his cape over his cassock. He follows the deacon into town, holding his hood fast against the rain. At the edge of the village is a small house, dark but for a single candle in the front window. The deacon swallows nervously before knocking on the door.

“I have returned with Father Lucilfer.”

The wooden door swings open, but there is no one there to receive them. Chrollo pulls his exorcism kit from underneath his cape, taking shelter on the small porch so he can retrieve a candle, match, and holder.

Holding the flame aloft, he peers into the retreating darkness of the house. Faint silhouettes emerge—a chair, an end table, a bed—and atop the bed is a vaguely human shape. Chrollo approaches carefully, and the flame illuminates the room, revealing the afflicted woman, curled in a ball and facing away from him. Her skin is luminescent in the candlelight, her hair curling down her shoulders like smoke; Chrollo can feel the evil present within her.

“Miss, I am Father Chrollo Lucilfer.” He sets the candle on the end table, moving around the end of the bed so that he may see her face. “I am here to exorcise the demon that has taken hold of you.” She refuses to look at him, burying her head in her arms. “Might you tell me your name?”

A laugh rasps out of her throat. Her head shifts, revealing one eye. The sclera is black as night, the iris red as blood. “It would cut your mortal tongue.” Her voice is like lava, and that single eye grips Chrollo, seeing through him, right down to the bone.

The tension is disrupted as the deacon bumps into the wooden chair, nearly knocking it over. He fumbles to keep it upright, hands clumsy with fear.

“Deacon, you may leave. Tell the townsfolk and the rest of the clergy to stay away.” Chrollo glances at the candle in the front window. “I will keep that candle lit; do not come back until it goes out.” The deacon hesitates, bound by duty, but Chrollo nods once in reassurance, and the young man’s relief is palpable. He skitters out the door, closing it behind him with unintentional finality. Chrollo returns his attention to the demon.

“Let us begin.” He retrieves his rosary, beads worn smooth with prayer. Setting the chair in front of her, Chrollo sits. The Lord’s Prayer flows easily from his orator’s mouth. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come…”

Her arms fall away from her knees, which drop to the side. She stares at him, entranced, cursed eyes nearly glazed over.

“…Amen.” He finishes the prayer, and she slumps over, and it occurs to him that this has been entirely too quick.

As if she can read his thoughts, she sighs loudly, stretching out fully on the bed, utterly unaffected. “You can do better than that.” She coils like a snake in front of him, her chin resting on her arms. “Go on, try again.”

Her affect intrigues him. He has performed exorcisms before, but never has a demon been so calm. They have raged at him, struck at him, fought him at every turn. But this…this is new. He accepts her offer, smoothly reciting Hail Mary. She merely smiles at him, does not bother to feign symptoms of success this time. He is not concerned—many exorcisms take time. The last one he performed had taken over a week. However, usually there is a more instantaneous reaction, and the following hours are spent prying the demon’s fingers from the person’s soul, one at a time. This demon is resisting that initial moment, and so Chrollo decides it is time to try his most advanced prayer.

The Athanasian Creed is long. There is a chance it will finally provoke the demon, and Chrollo plans ahead, opening his kit. He pulls out a pair of leather handcuffs. Strong enough to restrain a thrashing demon, but soft enough to leave the possessed person unharmed.

“I am going to put these on you.”

She grins wickedly, offering her wrists unbidden. “That’s more like it.”

Chrollo fastens one cuff around her wrist, then chains it to a rail on the headboard. He clasps the second cuff in the same fashion, and she pulls her hands together, chains sliding along the railing, then spreads them, hands drooping from the cuffs.

“This is your favorite pose, is it not? Perhaps if you drove nails into my hands I would submit.”

Chrollo does not respond, instead taking his pocket book of prayers and turning the worn pages to the Creed. “ _Quicumque vult salvus esse…_ ” He chants the words, invoking the power of the original Latin.

She simply leers at him where he stands by the edge of the bed. The Creed is finished, and there is no effect reflected in her body or her eyes. Three of the most powerful prayers, without a single hint of success. As Chrollo considers other techniques, she speaks again.

“May I make a suggestion?” Chrollo pauses. “You have been going about this _all_ wrong. You see,” she lifts one foot, the threadbare hem of her nightgown slipping up her thigh, and nudges it against his hip, “I am no ordinary demon. Traditional methods won’t work on me.” Her expression grows sultry as she slides her foot over the front of his cassock. “You are a man of Him, are you not? Would you not do _anything_ to serve Him, to be rid of me?”

It is clear to Chrollo what she means, her toes pressing into him. It is also clear that she speaks the truth; he accepted this task, and as a disciple of God and a man of his word, he _will_ finish it. There is…leeway granted for exorcisms, and once it has begun, it must be finished. But something registers as odd.

“Why are you so eager to be exorcised?”

Her eyes bore into his, molten vermillion against tempered gray. “Does that matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Then get on with it.”

Chrollo stows his prayer book and rosary in his bag. He moves the chair away and resumes his place standing by the bed. Her nightgown has pooled around her hips, leaving a modicum more than nothing to his imagination. Its position becomes even more precarious as he climbs carefully onto the bed, sitting on his heels at her feet. He unbuttons his cassock from his stomach downward, exposing his pants. Gently, he grasps her ankles and maneuvers her legs to allow space for himself between them. As he shuffles forward, opening the fly of his trousers, she giggles.

“This is not a sacrament, _Father_ , no need to be so stuffy.” She hooks her heels behind him, pitching him forward. Caught off guard, he scrabbles for purchase on the sheets on either side of her, catching himself just before his nose grazes her chest. He looks up to her eyes; they glow with mirth. “Oh my, Father, you’re blushing.” Indeed, Chrollo can feel a heat in his cheeks—they are locked in a promiscuous position, and he is painfully aware that this is first time with a woman. Perhaps he smells virginal, for she smiles, shifting him closer with her legs around his waist.

“Pardon my forgetfulness, this must be your first time. That must be so burdensome, remaining celibate.” Her heels press into the small of his back, bringing his pelvis down to hers. Her nightgown has fully fled, leaving her bare, and it is only the thin linen of his trousers that separates them. She is warm, and he stirs in his pants. “What do you do when you become hard? Do you will yourself through it? Do you hide yourself away in your room, masturbating in secret? Or perhaps you seek out a fellow clergyman, an accomplice in both abstinence and ecstasy?”

She cants her hips, pressing herself to him, and Chrollo’s mind stutters. He wants to answer her question, to tell her about how he resists all urges, about how he is a man of God above all else, but that is a lie—before God, he is a _man_.

He does not have to tell her; she already knows. Straining against the cuffs, she brings her face as close as she can, her breath ghosting over him. It smells like communion wine, cloying and intoxicating. “Exorcise me.”

Chrollo complies. Placing a hand on her chest, he pushes her back down on the bed. He lingers; her skin is warm, but he cannot feel a heartbeat under his palm. His hands roam to her thighs to hold them in place as he ruts against her. The fabric of his pants grows wet, and he doesn’t know if it is because of him, or her.

He is fully hard, aching against the linen, and when he finally parts the seam and allows his cock to spring free, it is the utmost relief. He resumes his position, skin to skin now, and it is unlike anything he could have dreamt. His hands tremble on her thighs, fingers etching their shape into her smooth skin, and she simpers.

“Hold it together, Father, you have much left to do.” She rocks her hips once, and a gasp escapes his lips. “You seem a touch overwhelmed. Shall I assist you?” Chrollo nods as she moves again, prying another weak sound from him. “Remove my dress. Let your desire take you over and tear it open.”

He hesitates, unsure, but a third cant of her hips spurs him forth, and he gathers the hem, rending the fabric with all his strength. It takes a moment, but then the weave gives way, parting like the sea to reveal the skin of her stomach. He follows through, and as the gown falls away from her breasts, his gaze settles between them. On her skin, otherwise unblemished, is a black mark: an inverted cross.

The unholiness draws him in. He places a hand on her chest once more, and quietly recites the Lord’s Prayer again. Finally, the demon is affected; she gasps, arching her back to press herself closer to his hand, wrists tugging at her restraints, but it is he who breaks first. His palm has begun to burn where it touches her, and he retracts his hand quickly, examining the skin. There is no visible damage, but it still stings, so he does not attempt the technique again. Her crimson eyes stare, burning hotter now.

“Father, don’t tease me.” There is a faint flush to her skin. “Let me taste you.”

The command is heady; Chrollo clambers forward, rising up on his knees. His cock is right in front of her mouth, and she kisses the tip. “I am so honored to be Father’s first everything.”

She opens her mouth, and he glides smoothly to the back of her throat, and the sensation weakens his knees. Chrollo grasps the headboard for support, hips pitching back and forth; he cannot decide whether to bask in the tight heat, or flee from it, but she does it for him, swallowing around his cock before craning her head back. Her lips draw away with a pop.

“Fuck my mouth,” she demands, the edge of her voice slightly rough.

He slips back in and allows his mind to give in to his hips’ impulse, thrusting deep. He has no time to develop any sort of rhythm; on the seventh stroke, his orgasm washes over him. Clutching her head with one hand, he pushes himself as deep as he can, pulsing his semen down her throat. She hums sultrily around him, and when he makes the mistake of looking down at her, a fresh wave of ecstasy enraptures him. Her eyes are aflame, lips stretched obscenely around his cock, head tilted to nestle into his palm. When he pulls out, a thin line of semen comes with him, and she darts her tongue out to reclaim it.

“You taste like purity,” she sighs. Her flush has deepened, as if intoxicated, and her lips are red as cherries. “Now I want to feel you.”

Chrollo obeys, returning to sit at her feet, but he is dismayed to find that he cannot proceed. He has gone soft, emptied of arousal, and even a quick press against her heat does little more than stir him. “I will need a moment, I’m afraid.”

She smiles. “I can help with that. But you will have to release me.” The chains rattle where her wrists are bound to the rail. “I will not run away, Father.” Her eyes dance with mirth. “Cross my heart.”

He regards her, calculating. What little of his rational mind that remains urges him not to acquiesce, but the much greater carnal desire wins in the end. He frees her, and she takes but a moment to massage her wrists and shed the torn nightgown before pouncing.

She reverses them, pinning him to the sheets, and swings a leg over so she may sit on him.

“Unhand me, demon,” he commands weakly.

She merely smirks, hovering over him. “No.” Her fingers deftly undo his remaining buttons, pushing his cassock and then his shirt open. She slides his clerical collar from around his neck, discarding it behind her, and Chrollo feels naked in more ways than one. “Give yourself to me right here, Father, right now. Fulfill your creed.”

Her voice caresses him, her eyes beseech him, and the temptation is unendurable.

“You may have me.”

The taste of sin is heavy on his tongue as she presses her lips to his, snaking her own tongue into his mouth. Her naked body melts into his, skin to skin to _skin_ , and his hands surge up to grasp wherever they can—her arms, her head, her thigh, her waist. She drags her mouth away, trailing her lips across his jaw and down the length of his neck. A whorish moan bleeds from his throat as she bites the junction between his neck and shoulder. Then, she moves down his chest, light as a feather, sucking dark marks here and there before arriving once more at his cock.

He is hard again, faster than he thought possible, the warmth of her breath sending a shiver along his length and up his spine. But she does not take him in her mouth this time, and instead moves to sit on his chest. She brushes her knuckles over his forehead, almost tenderly, before clasping his chin.

“Your turn.”

His mouth is pressed against her, defenseless against the taste of her, and when his tongue erratically jolts, dipping between her folds, and she trembles against him, Chrollo thinks he might die. He breathes shakily through his nose, working his tongue frantically, with no knowledge to guide him save for the desire to catch every drop of her, every molecule of her flavor. His hands grip her hips, searing bruises, and perhaps it is because of the lack of air, or the heady moan she releases, but he thinks that he would stay like this forever. That he would pray at her feet, consign himself to her mercy, and the impurity of it all sends him careening for the edge again.

She lifts away from him on shaky knees. “Your ardor is exhilarating.” Sliding down, she positions herself over his cock, gazing at him seductively. Her folds brush against his tip, and Chrollo groans impatiently. “Are you ready?”

“ _Yes_.” He has barely breathed the word when she sheathes him in heat. It is impossibly hot, unbearably soft, and wonderfully tight, and his second orgasm races forth. However, she immediately rises up, reaching below to grasp his cock and squeeze, halting his ecstasy in its tracks.

“If you come now, it will all be over. You don’t want that, do you?” Chrollo frantically shakes his head. “I do not want that either. Will you hold it in? Will you hold it for me?” The request is so much to ask—it is all he can to do hold steady through this conversation—but the thought of displeasing her upsets him, and he accepts his new task. She smiles, nearly fond, and releases him, lounging on his chest like a lion. “Good boy.”

Sinking down fully, she works herself on his cock, thighs flexing, and Chrollo follows his impulses once more. He meets her in the middle, and eventually he takes over, pressing new handprints into her hips and planting his feet for leverage. Her nails scratch his chest, and it lights something within him; he surges up, rolling her beneath him again, and pistons his cock fervently. One of her hands seizes his hair, tugging it loose from its backcomb, and the other claws at his back, raking lines that burn like Hell. He frantically seeks her mouth, her sin, and she bathes him in it, sucking on his tongue.

Something calls to him, distracts him from her taste and feel, and he travels down the column of her neck, pausing only briefly to nip at her breasts before he finds the beacon. His lips alight on her cross, and they part so that he may speak to it again, but this time it is not the Lord’s Prayer that flows. What he says, he does not know; he cannot even hear himself over the sound of his own pulse reverberating in his ears.

But she knows. She seizes, beneath him and around him, clenching so tightly he does not think he could come even if he hadn’t promised not to. Her arms encircle his head, pushing his nose into her skin, and drowning him in the scent of cloves and cocoa as she trembles.

Breaking through her hold, he pushes himself up so he may look at her, and the sight is glorious. Her skin is ruddy with lust, her chest heaving, and her eyes are truly glazed. Her lips are scarlet, parted around a breathy moan, and Chrollo dives for them, eagerly swallowing her noises.

He has almost forgotten himself and his own lust, until she grips his hair once more, freeing her mouth. “Come, Chrollo.”

The words pierce him, and he obeys, releasing inside her in a flood of euphoria. Her body consumes it, draining him until it hurts, and he collapses on top of her, all vigor evaporated. She places a shaky hand on his cheek, and when their eyes meet, she brings her other hand, smeared with his blood from the scratches, to her mouth. She bites into her thumb, her own black blood seeping from the wound, and presses it to his forehead. He can feel her inscribe a cross, but he does not know whether it is His or hers.

When it is done, she reclines, nestled in his abandoned cassock. Her hips shift, and he is reminded that he is still inside her. A debauched desire to see his semen leak from her crosses his mind, but there is no such sight. As soon as they are separated, she speaks.

“Thank you for the meal, Father Lucilfer.” Her hand passes over her stomach, leaving a streak of their blood. “I release you. I will leave the village.”

She rises from the bed and walks to the window to blow out the candle. Chrollo wants to stop her, to tell her to stay, but as his head clears, the rational part of him returns, and clamps his mouth shut. He does not respond when she bids him farewell, and as she vanishes in a cloud of smoke, he realizes the depth of her wickedness.

He is still sitting on the bed, half-naked and disheveled, when the deacon returns, a few other clergymen in tow.

“Father Lucilfer, where is the afflicted woman?”

Chrollo’s smile is blasphemous. “There never was one.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello, it is your friendly neighborhood chrollo fucker! priest!chrollo has occupied my mind for many moons now, so i had to do an exorcism of my own and write this (ha). i did some research, but am not religious at all myself, so my apologies if there are any glaring errors on that front. thanks for reading!
> 
> title is taken from the song "Bones" by In This Moment.


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